What lies beneath
by SarahBelle
Summary: Things are moving in the Ankh that are far from safe. The Watch have to contend not only with a series of gruesome, distinctive murders, but with a cover up the size of the ocean. But sharks aren't known for getting out of the water...at least, until now.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld, however bloody funny it may be. Sigh.**

* * *

Ankh-Morpork, it can be said, is a city where dreams can come true.

Remember some of your dreams?

So you will be glad to learn that this story does _not _start in Ankh-Morpork, but in a little fishing village about five miles away, on the coast of the circle sea, with the customary pier and rocky outgroves that all sea side towns seem to need, just in case they're going to be visited by a mermaid or selkie or some such thing from the deep. (1)

It was early morning in the village, and for anyone who was looking at the time, they would have been able to see a figure making its way across – and sometimes over – the rocks on the shore near the pier, with a basket under one arm. It was a young woman, though with the muffling jacket wrapped around her form it was hard to tell the difference between genders at first. In the nicest way possible, or course.

The young woman's name was Miranda. Her mother, who had been educated to be a 'high society Ankh-Morpork lady'(2), but had effectively flushed all the said education down the metaphorical plughole by marrying a fisherman, claimed that it meant 'she who must be admired', and the village had to admit that it rang true; though the young Miranda had grown up to be admired more for her ability to pick limpets off the bottoms of boats than for any extreme beauty on her part. But nobody thought any the worse of her for it – living in a fishing community, everyone acknowledged that the talent of pulling in a whole net full of fish, single-handed, beat being a dazzling good-looker who struggled to even lift a half-full basket, hands down.

Miranda clambered up over a pile of rocks. She was making for the mussel pools, further along. The season for the delicacies was approaching in Ankh-Morpork, and at this time of the year the fishwives went into the city wearing strings of them, like larger, smellier versions of the pearl necklaces society ladies wore. She was the only one in the village who could pull the strings off the rocks in one piece.

And a pair of unseen eyes watched her from the water, as they had for a long time before now.

This morning was very important. One could say it was the exact point where the dawning of a new age began.

Others could say it was the very beginning of the _extreme_ cock-up that was to follow.

* * *

1) It's no use being serenaded by a gorgeous woman with a fish's tail if she doesn't even have a rock to stand on. Or rather lie on, as the case may be.

2)Which is the same as a low society Ankh-Morpork lady, except that the higher sort tend to wear more expensive if even less tasteful clothes, and charge a great deal more than the average seamstress, however subtly.

* * *

**Umm, yes. Guess what the new arrival in the species front is?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Don't own Discworld. 'Nuff said.**

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A good deal of time after this – for the sake of accuracy if nothing else, we'll say it was about eleven months later – and the city of Ankh-Morpork was settling into another evening, soon to be another night. But that did not mean that life did not go on; in fact, it got even more exciting after it got dark, and everyone accordingly prepared. Beggars put out their best (and often fluorescent) begging bowls, barkeepers polished the glasses (and made sure that the often life saving big knobbly stick was neatly tucked under the bar itself), seamstresses applied their best lipstick, thieves polished their coshes…

And, in the higher areas of Ankh-Morpork, the rich were preparing to go out to dinner.

Such an occasion was taking place in the Ramkin household; though under some protest.

"Sam Vimes! You will wear those tights, and you will _like _it!"

"But I _don't _like it, dear, that's the point." Vimes glared at himself in the mirror, as Sybil bustled away to get something, leaving him alone to deal with the full, horrible sight. Yet another horrendous ducal outfit had finally fulfilled his worst nightmares that had plagued him since he had first been 'persuaded' to become a duke – he looked like a ballerina that had let herself run to seed, germination and sprouting.

"Stop glowering at yourself, Sam!" Sybil said, in the special cooing voice she always used whenever she had forced Sam into the outfits and was now admiring her handiwork like an artist surveying his masterpiece, though laced with the merest hint of a threat that the artist _could _do a little repainting. "I knew those britches would suit you! They make you look so _dashing!"_

"They make me look like I'm wearing spectacularly daft drawers, Sybil. Why don't any of these outfits you somehow manage to procure for me at least have a pair of trousers? Ruddy Selachii doesn't wear britches, I don't see why I should have to."

"Sam, you wear britches most of the time," Sybil pointed out calmly, as she adjusted his cravat, pulling it tight. "Part of your uniform, in case you haven't forgotten."

"Yes, dear," Vimes replied patiently, as best as he could with his wife's fingers fumbling in front of his mouth, "but Watch britches don't look as if they've been inflated."

"Now, now, Sam," Sybil said, more mildly. "Be in a good mood for the dinner."

"Where are we eating tonight?" Vimes asked tentatively, dreading the answer. He knew it was one of the guilds, but which one? Which _one?_...

"The Guild of Fishermen."

Vimes had to work _very_ hard to suppress a groan.

It surprised many of the visitors to Ankh-Morpork, and indeed most of those who lived there as well, that considering that the city was built around a river that creatures _evolved _to get out of (1), it boasted quite a large, and quite good, fish market. The market and its alliance with the fishermen on the coast had flourished in the past few years especially (gods knew how, Vimes thought, it wasn't as if fish was the most widely consumed food in the city, that particular honour went to something that ran on all fours and went 'squeak' periodically), and in the past few years, as a result of Vetinari's _ever_ so effective policies, the people in charge had even formed themselves into a guild.

Well, he supposed it had only been a matter of time. After the Guild of Seamstresses, not to mention the Guild of Exotic Dancers, anything was possible.

And, unlike many – indeed most – of the guilds in the city, it wasn't corrupt; or at least not in any way that could be reckoned. The fish wasn't usually freshly _caught_, of course – they weren't _that _good – but it _was_ fresh, and you could be safe in the knowledge that what you bought at least hadn't been breathing in sewage for all of its life; and hadn't been painted a different colour to make it more appealing either, if it came to that. It was just that, whenever the Guild held a dinner…

…it was inevitable, really…

…they served fish at _every single course. _Smoked salmon and prawns (to Vimes, anything that was caught in nets from the sea automatically went into the 'piscine' file of his mind) for starters, clam chowder (anything that got picked off rocks under the water was stuffed in the file as well) as a soup; anything went in the main course (and often did), from sword fish steak to haddock with fried, sliced potatoes, to salmon, which Vimes really _could not stand_; and it was sheer dumb luck that they hadn't managed to make a pudding with fish in it yet, although that was perhaps more to do with public opinion. (2) But he wouldn't put it past them.

He went into young Sam's bedroom before they left. He was already fast asleep. Vimes stroked a finger down the side of his little son's face. It felt so soft. He still couldn't believe how soft it felt, even after more than a year…

"Lucky little boy," he muttered. "You don't have to deal with sharks tonight…"

_Both on the dinner table and sitting _around_ the dinner table, _he added mentally and glumly, as he crept out of the dark nursery.

* * *

The young assassin, Jonathon Bleedwell (named for his cousin, who had died boldly in an attempt at liberating the city, if rather messily) lay on top of the building, and watched the guests descending from their carriages and being shown in through the front doors of the 'Guild' of Fishermen. If you could call them doors. He had been brought up in a typical aristocratic Ankh-Morpork household where even his bathroom had been bigger than an average house in the poorer districts, and even more decorated than the Opera House auditorium; but he nevertheless had a sense of taste when it came to architecture. Or rather, he liked to _think _he had a sense of taste. In any case, he thought the statues of the mermaids on either side of the doors were a bit much. People passing by the building often stopped and stared, and they were usually looking at something rather lower down than the carved stone scroll the mermaids were holding up, which bore the motto, when translated, 'There are plenty more fish in the sea'.

_Common as muck, _Jonathon thought dryly.

The Guild, for various reasons, and taking into account what it represented, looked out onto the Ankh. The assassin wondered idly if the so-called leaders of the guild were overjoyed with this wonderful purchase. Certainly _he_ would not pay much money for such a view, if any at all. The Guilds liked to be reminded constantly of their mission and aim in Life, but there were some things One shouldn't look at for long, especially when One was eating One's dinner. Another One could say that this was rich, coming from a person who lived in a building which housed a large number of people who inhumed other people for fairly substantial amounts of money (and showed it), but one look at the river would undoubtedly alter their opinion.

Jonathon had gotten here early, to make sure that he wouldn't be late for his appointment. It was _not _do for an assassin to be late for an appointment. Late, perhaps, for everything else, but _never _an appointment.

He knew that the target would emerge later. So all he had to do was wait.

He was _good _at waiting.

* * *

Vimes, to his surprise, was actually having a tolerable time. He knew that there was no hope of a call to arms breaking him out (Sybil had made it very clear to him in the coach on the way that she had arranged all emergencies to automatically be reported to Carrot, with more triumph than he personally felt was necessary), but he was nevertheless having a passable conversation with the host of the party and head of the guild, one Mr. Roger Salmon, clutching a cocktail stick with prawns skewered on it in one hand, and a glass of water held firmly in the other, graciously provided by Mr. Salmon.

Vimes had met Salmon once or twice before, and to his surprise had actually grown to _not_ dislike him; even perhaps to _like_ him(which was in itself a rare occurrence, since, as he himself often professed, he didn't like anyone very much), if only a little. Salmon, after all, was much like him; he hadn't been born rich but had steadily worked his way up through the social order, if much faster than Vimes had done at first, though slower than him in the long run – you couldn't really beat becoming Commander of the Watch, a Sir _and _a Duke all in just under half a decade - he had struggled and persevered for his living and his status, which Vimes respected, even if he couldn't claim he had applied those particular traits to himself; and he obviously cared deeply for his family, his colleagues and his workers, which to Vimes was more important than any social ambition. He was, of course, inclined to be a little pompous, but it was easier for Vimes to ignore, since it was the pompousness of one who has worked himself to the bone through his youth and early middle-age, and is now entitled to be the one who holds himself with a certain carriage rather than the one mending a certain cart; rather than the type where you stuck up your nose at other people because your mother had a sillier and longer name than those other people and your father's blood had been blue(which might have given you something to worry about, rather than something to be proud of).

"Enjoying yourself, Sir Samuel?" Salmon was asking. He was talking between eating prawns off his own minuscule skewer, with every evident show of enjoyment. Vimes smiled weakly.

"I've been to worse dinner parties." He looked around. "Ladies not come down yet?" You could tell which ladies were wives or daughters of the guild's leaders; they all wore their hair in net bags, as a not-quite-so subtle tribute to their livelihood. It had become quite a fashion in the city, actually. Why waste time doing your hair, when you could stuff it in a snood? Some ladies even customised their nets, with little charms – but the 'Fisher-ladies' always wore shells. They sometimes had a habit of stinking the room out if the shells weren't washed properly, of course; but then so did their husbands if they hadn't bothered to clean themselves up after visiting their hauls. The Guild was a world of equal opportunities…

…and it seemed that it had a new member.

Salmon followed Vimes's gaze, to the new arrival who was standing by the door.

"Ah, Miranda!" At once he was striding off, to take the young woman tenderly by the hand, with his own especial gentleness, and led her to Vimes. "Vimes, this is my niece, Miranda Salmon; she's just come to the city. Miranda, this is His Grace Sir Samuel Vimes, the Duke of Ankh-Morpork. I'll say," Salmon added with a smile, to Vimes, "that you've heard of Miranda's mother, Vimes, if not of her – a Miss. Betty Gwyn?"

Vimes nodded dumbly, chewing a prawn without thinking. Who _hadn't_ heard of Betty Gwyn? Who hadn't heard of _any _Gwyn? The Gwyns were mildly notorious in Ankh-Morpork (at least, the female ones were) as really the _first_ seamstresses' guild, to a relative degree and on a far grander scale. They had an illustrious, if slightly shaky, family tree, namely because you could never be quite sure whose roots gave rise to which branch (or, as Nobby more succinctly put it, 'which posh bastard had been fathering which little bastard'). Practically all the female Gwyns (3) were 'Misses' for a time in their most attractive years, before they eventually settled down and got married after successful careers of flouting public decency, very often to extremely wealthy gentlemen despite the fact they kept the family name. It had been expected that Betty Gwyn, one of the most attractive of the clan's generation, would forge a similarly legendary path in life for herself; instead, she had caused the scandal of the decade by giving up her career before she had even begun it - or even attempted for the first time to get herself a 'keeper', as the saying went - in order to marry Gerald Salmon, a relative nobody in the fish-trade: the guild hadn't even been formed yet, let alone elected his brother head of it. He was truly a nobody, in every sense of the world.

It wasn't so much that she had eloped that had caused the scandal; women of 'her kind' did that a lot of the time. More than once, in some cases. It was the fact that _she had done it for love. _The word was relatively unheard of in the circle, without the word 'money' in close attendance.

And now the result of the little love story was standing right in front of him, eyeing him slightly suspiciously, or as suspiciously as one is allowed to behave towards the Duke of the city in which, regardless your opinion of it might be, you are currently staying in.

His copper's mind automatically cut in, taking note of her features, starting from the top.

Chestnut hair bundled slightly unceremoniously into the customary bag net, eyes surrounded by heavy lashes which gave her a faintly startled air; a slightly protruding lower lip, which must have made for an adorable pout in the females on her mother's side of the family, but here only conspired to make her look sulky rather than smouldering, a square jaw that made the bottom half of the face look over-heavy. Not thin but stocky, which wasn't the same as being fat, as he well knew. Wide shouldered – he didn't dare look any further down for fear of getting his face slapped for ogling, regardless of who the girl's mother had been – but he had an idea that beneath the green taffeta of her sleeves, the arms were well muscled; certainly her hands, though folded demurely in front of her, looked as if they could deal one hell of a nasty punch, which made him even more determined not to let his eyes rest any lower than her neck. She didn't look as if she approved of That Sort Of Thing one bit, or would tolerate it.

All this flashed through Vimes's head in one second; and the next he was nodding as he went on listening to Salmon talking, explaining that Miranda's parents had decided she should get a taste of Ankh-Morpork life, especially now that the family was going up and further up in the world. Miranda looked away, as if she did not like the taste at all.

"Oh, damn!" Salmon had been distracted yet again, by something else. He was looking over at the door again, but this time it was two male figures that had caught his attention. "I don't think I invited _those_ two. Would you excuse me, Vimes?"

Vimes nodded. He knew the annoyance of an uninvited William de Worde and Otto Chriek, as well as the potential fatalities of not dealing with them earlier rather than later.

As Salmon walked off again, he was left with a glass of water in which the ice was rapidly melting, a now empty skewer in his other hand, and an awkward and rather large silence. Miranda's eyes were now fixed on a table display to the side of him, where something extremely uncomfortable and mortifying had been done to a Curious Squid.

"Umm…" Vimes fought for something to say. He often fought for ones in these situations. "So…how do you like it here in the big city, so far?"

"It's certainly interesting, your Grace," Miranda said blandly, not taking her eyes off the squid's agony. "I've been introduced to a lot of the city already. After dinner tonight my uncle and aunt are going to take me to the opera house, to see an opera." She did not sound particularly enthusiastic about any of this, more as if she was reciting the prices of fish to a person she did not particularly like.

"Commander."

"Sorry?" Well, she'd stopped looking at the squid now, and started looking at him. That was a start.

"If you have to give me an address, it might as well be one I tolerate."

She looked at him hard for a moment. "Terribly sorry, _Commander. _I don't go giving my address to men I barely know. Not unless they're forthcoming beforehand." Vimes choked on a swig of his water. Miranda's trout pout – hah! – curved into a smile, for an instant, before back into the glower. "I was making a little joke, Commander. Just because my mother was destined to charge for an evening doesn't mean I will."

"Of course," Vimes spluttered, trying to get the water he'd inhaled by mistake back up to his mouth. The awkward moment, which somehow was even worse than an awkward silence, was broken by the dinner gong. The assembled guests made murmurs of appreciation, and moved towards the dining hall.

"I…hope you'll enjoy the dinner, then," he said, as they turned to join the throng.

"Probably not," came Miranda's quiet reply. "Just because I was brought up in a fishing village doesn't necessarily mean I _like _fish, Commander."

Vimes deeply sympathized. It was going to be smoked salmon for starters, he knew it; he could _feel _it in his water. He liked to smoke himself, but that didn't mean that he enjoyed eating something that had been smoked until it would have choked to death had it not already been dead in the first place.

* * *

It was late. Very late. The moon would have been shining, had it not been a fairly cloudy night. Perfect. No moonlight,for now, to glint off any potential terminal-causing weapons.

Jonathon was more intelligent than his fellows in some respects, which was invaluable. He understood that while style was _everything,_ so was not getting caught. That was the point of it all; you didn't get caught so that it would be all the more a surprise who anyone who came across the subject later. Also, the Watch – the cads! – were becoming more and more annoying about contracts. Vimes seemed to have something against the guild. Heavens knew why; they'd only tried to assassinate him nine times; the man was a bounder but apparently he held a grudge for a long time as well.

He shook his head, mostly for his own benefit. Some people. No breeding in them, no breeding at all…

He slipped down from the rooftop, as silent as a shadow, so quiet and invisible against the night even the gargoyles which perched upon the building didn't see him. He positioned himself in the alleyway almost directly under where he had been lying, and pulled out his crossbow.

It was good, this crossbow. It had a special firing system, which meant that it bent in mid-flight. It still hit the person where it was meant to – which was usually around the left side of the chestal area, unless the client was more choosy – but it did so at a diagonal, meaning that when the body was examined, the arrow look as if it had been fired from a different direction altogether. Ingenious.

All the more reason not to get caught, then. The word o the street was that Vimes was even less well disposed towards those who were found carrying these than he usually was to any assassin.

The guests were coming out now. And – yes, the target was in sight, standing on the front steps.

Time to earn his payment then.

He cocked the crossbow, leant his firing arm on his left to aim it – remember to aim slightly to the right – prepared to pull the trigger-

Something hard and cold and damp and terrible-yet-familiar-smelling clamped over the lower part of his face, and before he had time to be surprised pulled him sharply backwards.

He blinked as he was wrenched back into the shadows.

When his eyelids opened again, though it could only have been a fraction of a second since they closed, deep night seemed to have fallen. There was dark all around him, he couldn't even see the building next to him, let alone the Guild house opposite. Oddly enough, he didn't seem to be able to feel it either, when he stretched out his hand for reassurance. His would-be assailant appeared to have vanished, and so had his crossbow. Damn! Lord Downey would surely put it on his student bill! But he didn't remember letting go of it.

It was all very strange. Something was obviously wrong here. There was no sound; and now that he looked more carefully the darkness was not so much shadows as a simple lack of light. He tried to think, but it was all confusion and a remembrance of pain. He rubbed his neck absentmindedly.

"What happened?" he asked aloud, aware how foolish he must look talking to himself.

A darker shade appeared among the darkness, if that was possible. It appeared to be holding a walking stick of some sort. It towered over him.

WELL, WHAT DO YOU REMEMBER?

His forehead wrinkled in a frown. "It's all a bit confused, really. I remember…"

IN YOUR OWN TIME, the figure prompted.

"I remember a lot of muffled screaming," he volunteered.

THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOU.

"I suppose so. And a _lot _of agonized writhing. Even more than the screaming, I think."

THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN YOU AGAIN.

"And rows and rows of razor sharp teeth, flashing in the moonlight?"

AH. The figure said nothing for a moment. THAT, I THINK, WOULD HAVE BEEN YOUR ATTACKER.

"I think so too." He didn't like the way this was going. "I hope it didn't do too much damage. This outfit's nearly new, you know." He couldn't _see _any bites, himself, but it was hard to tell in this light.

AHEM. An cough coughed in an eldritch voice of command, while it might not look like much on paper, is certainly worth hearing, if for nothing else than the novelty of it. YOU MIGHT WANT TO LOOK DOWN, JONATHON BLEEDWELL.

Jonathon Bleedwell looked down.

"Eurrrgh," he said. Being the son of a gentleman and a gentleman himself in his own right, _eurrrgh _was not a part of his general vocabulary, but he felt that in this case he was able and willing to make an exception.

INDEED.

"What could _do _something like that?"

I HAVE A FAIRLY STRONG IDEA – BUT THAT DOES NOT CONCERN YOU.

Jonathon looked up at the figure. Life in a guild of assassins had prepared him for the concept of death and how to bring it about, in minute detail; somehow, they seemed to have felt it necessary to leave this chap out – but he had a feeling he knew who he was anyway. "You're Death, aren't you?"

YOU SOUND SURPRISED.

"Well…it's just that…I wasn't expecting to be in this position for another few years at least."

OH, ALL ASSASSINS THINK THAT. THEN THEY DIE.

Jonathon cast another look at his earthly remains; or what _remained_ of his remains at least. "Do you think I suffered much?"

OH, I SHOULDN'T THINK SO. YOU ONLY STRUGGLED FOR ABOUT A MINUTE. ALTHOUGH YOU STILL SCREAMED FOR A LITTLE WHILE AFTER THAT. BUT FROM HERE YOU LOOK QUITE PEACEFUL, YOU KNOW.

Jonathon wanted to say that it was pretty hard to look like _anything_ when half your face was missing, but he was too busy trying not to bring whatever remained in his ghostly stomach up. He never knew ghosts could be sick. But he knew now.

NOW, THIS WAY, IF YOU PLEASE.

Jonathon looked up in alarm. "But I missed my appointment!"

I SOMEHOW DOUBT THAT YOUR TARGET WILL MIND.

"But everyone's going to think I'm a cad, for missing my appointment!"

I AM SURE THEY WILL UNDERSTAND, CONSIDERING THE CIRCUMSTANCES. NOW, FOLLOW ME.

Jonathon obediently followed, but still grumbled. "A Bleedwell never misses his appointment, you know!"

BE COMFORTED IN THE FACT THAT YOU WERE RIGHT ON TIME FOR THIS ONE.

* * *

1) In some cases literally, especially along the banks which encroached on the Unseen University and receiving a fair leakage of magic. Compared to what was breeding under the surface of the river, a man turning into an orang-utan was practically ordinary, and certainly more attractive.

2) The populace of Ankh-Morpork – at least, the human side of it, because trolls and dwarves are generally too sensible to get caught up in this sort of argument – young and old, rich and poor, Watchman and criminal alike, had declared itself united on one front (or two if you wanted to be picky about that sort of thing): that they knew what cheesecake should taste like, and that it should _not _taste of kippers.

People stopped in the streets tended to run away even more now than they did before, since they still had bad memories of the last 'Guild Survey'.

3) The Gwyns were the one aristocratic family where daughters were considered more valuable than sons, and were often better educated as well, since well-paying men liked to have _some _intelligent dinner conversation before bed-time. Not necessarily _too_ intelligent, but a beautiful and silent eating companion can make you feel too much like you're talking to yourself, which is _never_ a goodthing, and puts you right off the evening.

**

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Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Don't own Discworld, or anything , according to Plato, Just look up his Theory of the Cave.**

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Oddly enough, it was the scent of fish that first alerted Angua to the fact that something was rotten in the city of Ankh-Morpork (1).

Strictly speaking it was her night off, or rather week off considering the shape of the moon, but as a not-quite-favour to Carrot she was currently extremely out of uniform and accompanying him and a new recruit, some kid called von Lofton, along the water front near the fish market. And her mind was in even more of a conflict than usual.

Though she would never have admitted it to Carrot, or even to herself (most of the time), the scent of fish made her head spin even more than usual with confusing smells. The world of the piscine was a closed book (or river) to most werewolves, who preferred prey that ran on four legs and had to, when in the water, return to the surface periodically to breathe. Fish inhabited a completely different world from her, and they showed it in their smells. It was almost alien at times, and it stuck in the nose. And it was a thousand times worse when she visited the market – fish smelled bad enough when they were in one piece, but cut open they didn't bear describing. It wasn't as bad as when she was human; then she shared the customary human revulsion at the smell of raw fish, but when she was in her wolf form, it was all she could do to concentrate on the scent of Carrot. It was comforting. It helped her keep a hold, when half of her wanted to whine at the strangeness of it all, and the other half wanted to leap for flesh.

Carrot was explaining something to the young corporal, who kept nodding in a slightly irritatingly eager manner, and also kept shooting nervous glances at her, which proved that he wasn't as much a twit as she had first suspected – he knew a werewolf at first sight, at any rate. She had tried giving him a wink, or even a reassuring smile, but it was pretty hard to smile when your jaws are designed more for tearing out someone's throat than for flashing them a grin.

And then, suddenly, out of nowhere, there was the smell. It was blood. It was human. It was fresh. And it hit her nose like an anvil hitting an unsuspecting character in a cartoon.

She whined. Carrot, who had stopped in his tracks at the same time as her, was asking something. "Angua? What is it?"

"Angua? Wasn't that the name of that lady-" von Lofton began.

But she was already leaping forward, the scent drawing and pulling her, like a hook caught in her nose. It wasn't pleasant, and she knew the only remedy would be to find the source, whatever that source happened to be. She doubted very much that it would be pleasant.

Behind her she was dimly aware of Carrot and the kid running after her, shouting at passers-by to clear the way. She didn't need to, of course – very few people will stand in the way of a large wolfish looking dog bounding down the pavement, she had found out long ago.

She skidded through the now shut fish market – even the horrific smells there didn't distract her now – turned into an alleyway…

There was so much of it. It was on the ground and spattered on the walls, as if someone had gone mad with a toothbrush and some 'Essence of the Red Stuff' paint. She couldn't help another whine escaping from her jaws. Normally such a display would have had her slavering despite herself, but there are some things even werewolves don't find tasty so much as terrifying.

That wasn't the worst thing, though. The worst thing was what was leaking all the blood.

She sat back on her haunches and simply stared. There wasn't much else she could do. She heard Carrot and von Lofton, the latter wheezing in an interesting manner, run up behind her, and heard both of them gasp. To her side, von Lofton threw up in a rather vibrant shade of _bleeaaargh, _but the sensing was very far away, as if she was stuck at the bottom of a deep well.

She felt Carrot's hand on her neck, steadying her. She growled a little, whether in gratitude or just as a nervous reaction she didn't know. She just didn't know.

* * *

The ringing of the bell jolted Vimes around; dragging his hand away from Mr. Salmon's which he had been in the acting of shaking goodbye. The people around murmured in protest at this behaviour, and muttered in actual outrage when, pinpointing where the ringing was coming from – just across the street – he leapt down the front steps of the guild, and into the road. Thank the gods there wasn't as much traffic at night as there was in the day, since it meant that he wasn't running the risk of getting knocked down by a cart – if he'd been killed in those tights, he'd die of shame if he wasn't already dead – and that he could see, on the corner, who was ringing the bell. There was no mistaking that height and build anywhere, even if the hair was covered up by a helmet.

"What's going on here, Carrot?" he wheezed, when he reached the young captain.

Carrot, for once, said nothing. His face was pale, and his lips pressed firmly together. As the moonlight shone on his face, he almost looked like a ghost. He swallowed, then turned and pointed into the shadowed alley behind him.

Vimes leant forward, straining his eyes to see. It came to him slowly.

Angua, in wolf-form, was crouching on one side of the alleyway, hackles raised and growling in a way that showed that she was both angry and very nervous. One of the newest recruits, von Lofton, Vimes thought he was called, was squatting beside her, looking as if he had just violently lost his dinner, seemingly disregarding of the werewolf, his wide eyes fixed on the same point she was looking at.

Vimes turned to see what held their attention.

"Oh, gods," he said hoarsely.

Angua gave a growling whine, and tried to hide her muzzle in her paws.

"What should we do, sir?" Carrot asked quietly. That was telling in itself. When Carrot was quiet, something big was about to happen.

He swallowed. "Well, first off…we should probably close his eyes for him."

"Ummm…sir…" Von Lofton gulped, and turned his own eyes away from what was left of the head.

"Ah. Right. Close his _eye_ for him, then."

* * *

"You're not coming in," Vimes said, flatly. Normally the Commander of the Ankh-Morpork was not the one who answered the door of the Psuedopolis Watch house, but there were two things which affected this ruling; firstly that he had only just arrived and had just closed the door behind him, so being the nearest to it at the time it was only practical for him to answer itwhen the knock came; and secondly it was William de worde with his notebook and Otto Chriek with his iconograph and both with big, inquiring smiles, who were doing the knocking.

"Then can I write down _why _I can't come in?" William asked brightly, his good mood, begun by several interviews at the big guild party he hadn't been invited to, being improved even more by antagonising Vimes in such a situation. He was getting very good at it these days. Internally he kicked his suicidal heels in glee, at the expression on the commander's face. It was moments like these that made the job all worthwhile. And sometimes the aftermaths as well.

Vimes seemed to be counting to ten before he trusted himself to speak. "Why? Because I say so, that's why! This is a Watch house, and this is a murder inquiry that's going on, not an event of the month! Must you constantly poke your nose into _anything_ that doesn't concern you?"

"Why not? You seem to do it all the time, commander. As well as your…men." William cast a nervous glance at the nearby werewolf. It was sitting just inside the door by Captain Carrot, with his hand on its neck, growling at nothing in particular. At least, he hoped it was nothing in particular, rather than him. He didn't think either of them had forgotten the dropped scent bomb just yet. That sort of memory tended to stick, especially when you couldn't smell properly for days afterward.

Vimes gave a theatrical sigh, as he leaned against the door frame, barring William's entry with seemingly effortless ease; or as effortless as you can be while wearing scarlet tights and pantaloon breeches. "Yes, but we know when to stop, Mr. de Worde."

"Do you, commander?" William had perfected that smile. It reeked of innocence and innocent inquiry, and had gotten facts out of many an unsuspecting interviewee that they had never intended to reveal, but had just let slip _by chance_ to the nice young man with the big, happy grin. Unfortunately many of the more important people in the city had cottoned onto the idea by now, Vimes being one of the first – William suspected he had never been taken in by it, even in the early stages of the smile's development – but it was always worth a try in any case. And it seemed to work in this one. At any rate, Vimes, after giving him one of his scrutinizing glares, elbowed himself upright off the door post, clearing the way.

"I suppose not. Gods, you _always_ manage to do this. All right, Mr. de Worde, you can come in, and view the...subject. You're leaving your colleague behind, though."

"Commander, for the last time, Otto is no threat…"

"Except to himself, with that damned iconograph. But he's staying outside for two rather good reasons, Mr. de Worde; one, I somehow doubt you will want pictures of this, and two…well, you'll see about two in a minute, I'm sure. In the meantime Mr. Chriek can stay out here, and I'm sure our resident Black Ribboner will be able to keep him entertained with stories of the good old times, when she can manage to get down from her enormously high heels."

"You mentioned me, Commander?" asked Lance-constable Sally from behind him. (2)

Vimes, to his credit, didn't look around at once. "Yes we were, Lieutenant," he said, turning slowly taking his time. "We were just negotiating Mr. Chriek's remaining outside, and we thought you might be able to keep him company."

"I heard that part, sir."

"Good, good. Well, out you go, and I'll get Visit to bring you out some cheese and apples, how about that? Come in, Mr. de Worde," Vimes grinned manically, pulling William in by one arm as he practically pushed Sally out with the other. Carrot shut the door smartly in the surprised vampires' faces.

Vimes seemed to let out a breath once the door was safely shut. "I was wondering how we were going to manage this. I suppose I have to thank you for something, Mr. de Worde."

"What for?"

"Well, bringin' in der body was gonna be a bit tricky, considerin'," Sergeant Detritus said softly, or as softly as a troll could manage, which wasn't really very soft at all. "Specially with all der bl-"

"Yes, thank you, Detritus, we'll let you know!" Vimes pulled William towards the back of the office, which was still filled with bustling people even at this time. Captain Carrot and the werewolf, William noticed, stayed by the door.

"Bit risky, having a werewolf around at this point," Vimes said, looking back to see where he was looking. "Our colleague had pretty good self-control, but this subject was – a bit trying for them. I didn't want to run the risk of the _lieutenant _going berserk."

By this time they had reached the passageway which led to the cellar which was, William knew all too well, the domain of the Watch's Igor, Detritus lumbering along behind them. William noticed the sound of two or possibly more sets of footsteps making their way down the stairs beyond the door, and a drop of something dark red on the floor. He often noticed these things. Especially the last one.

"We had to bring him in the back way," Vimes said quietly. "Otherwise she'd _definitely _have noticed."

William nodded, trying not to look at the drop as they passed by it, and tried not to unconsciously tread in it either.

Igor, it appeared on arriving in the cellar, seemed to have acquired a few more various disturbing things in jars since the last, and so far only, time William had been granted access to the Watch house cellar; and by surgical enhancement seemed to have made his quiff even longer, if that was possible. He beamed up cheerily at them, as they descended the last few flights of stairs.

"Ah, Commander Vimes, thur! And Mr. William de Worde, haven't theen you in a while, sir!"

"All right, Igor, there's no time for introductions," Vimes growled, lighting a customary cigar, probably trying to dispel the definitely chemical smell that lurked in the air of the laboratory. "Mr. de Worde wants answers, and I have to admit I do as well. So, let's start the examination."

"Walk thith way then, sir, walk this way." Igor limped over to an large wooden table, lit from above with a bright oil lamp, upon which two Watch men were even now laying down a long bundle, wrapped in cloth. William couldn't help noticing that there was a certain red stain slowly appearing in the cloth on the side facing the approaching group.

A snap from behind made him whirl around, but it was only Igor, pulling on a pair of specially rubber gloves over his hands. Or what William fervently hoped _were _his hands, rather than someone else's. Vimes was smirking at him, as he chewed on the cigar.

"Got to be neat, you know," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

William nodded, trying to quell the rapidly rising feeling inside him that perhaps this story _wasn't _worth investigating after all, and perhaps he should just go back upstairs and take interviews, he was _good _at interviews…

But Igor was already approaching the bundle on the table; with swift efficieny he cut the ropes binding the cloth together and pulled the sacking back-

"Ah," he said. "Yeth. Well. This can thometimes happen, you know."

"Coo. Really?" Detritus asked, with interest. "What, like when jelly and stuff sets?"

"I really, _really _hope Visit got those two some apples and cheese," Vimes said, sounding as stunned as William had ever heard him. He himself said nothing – he was too busy pulling the collar of his coat against his nose and mouth to try to stop the smell of blood, and to stop himself being sick at the sight of the _stuff _inside the cloth.

"Mop," Igor instructed, holding out a rubber-gloved hand. One of the Watch men, standing as far away as possible, handed him one.

He worked in relative silence for a minute or two, save for the bubbling of various experiments on the walls, and the 'Whee!' of noses and toes, and the splat of various gobbets of the jellyish stuff onto the floor. He stopped for another mop half way through.

William thought at first that nothing could be worse than all that red stuff; but as what was _under_ the red stuff became more visible, he decided he had been very, very wrong.

At length, Igor handed the second mop, now sodden like the first, back to the current mop-providing Watch man. "Let's thee," he murmured, leaning forward so closely that what his nose consisted of was practically touching the – well, William could really call what was left on the table anything other than the 'leftovers'. Then there was silence for another while.

At last the patchwork man straightened, or straightened as well as he could. "Well, I can deduce that he was certainly attacked by thome animal of sorts."

"We can _see_ that, Igor," vimes growled, sounding quite patient William thought. "Anything else?"

"If you want a full description, _thur?"_

"Go right ahead. We've got our very own reporter from _The Times _to note it all down." Vimes winked at William. "You'll have to get a bit closer than that, Mr. de Worde – we want you to know what you're writing about, after all."

William glared at him, trying hard not to breathe through his nose, as he inched closer to the table.

"Severe wounds to the arms, neck, chest and face," Igor recited, without looking up at him, already eyeing the stiff again and indicating to the wounds. William tried hard not to look as he hurriedly jotted the words down. "Claw markth to the legs, but most damage sustained on the upper body. Large pieceth of flesh mithing from arms, another one from chest and another from neck…"

_I can't take this. I'm going to be sick!_

"…turning attention to the head-"

"Oh, gods no!" William turned away, breathing deeply, just in time to see Vimes give a particularly evil grin.

"…severe wounds, large piece of the fathe missing, again, one of the eyes gone, lipth too."

"So what do you think it all means, Igor?"

"Well, thur, you see these bite marks?"

"How could we miss them, Igor?"

"Not very eathily, sir, but bear with me here. The skin and flesh around them seems to be rather mangled, and from what I can tell of the brief report I wath provided with by Captain Carrot, the body appears to have been found with the arms and legth spread out in an attitude of defenthe."

"Yes?"

"Further more, the damage sustained suggests that the tears were not inflicted thimply by the attacker, but by the victim attempting to escape; particularly the one on the neck here, thur, if you'll just look-"

"Escape? How do you _know_ these things, Igor?"

"Work experience in Uberwald can teach you a lot about predator and prey, thur," Igor said evenly. "At any rate, I can fathom that the…young man was probably conscious for most of the attack, and struggling to escape for quite a bit of it. Until the head wound, thur. I doubt he would have been conscious after that."

_I doubt he would have been unconscious, _William thought feverishly. _It's pretty hard to close your eyes when you haven't got anything to close over them._

Vimes was sounding more troubled than William had ever heard him before; he;d even taken the cigar out of his mouth. "So, wait a minute Igor; you're telling me whatever attacked this lad pinned him down, and then…ate him alive?"

"Yeth, sir. Quite slowly as well, if I'm any judge."

Vimes's voice dropped into the following silence like a stone into water. "I hope you've been taking notes, Mr. de Worde."

* * *

1) Well…more rotten than usual. A lot of things went rotten in the city, some of the most common being lots of kinds of food, buildings, and especially teeth. In the Shades your _tongue _could go rotten, if you didn't drink enough spirits to pickle it first.

2) It is a universal comedic truth that, whenever somebody starts to badmouth somebody else they don't particularly like, that somebody else will _always_ happen to be standing just behind them at the time. It's true. Whether it's in an office, an office party, at the top of a rather high cliff or deep at the bottom of the sea, the badmouthing person will always hear a cough from behind them just as they're getting to the best bit, and look around with classic comic timing into either a perfectly innocent smile, or a definitely evil frown. What happens next is rather varied, but usually hilarious; for everyone except the badmouthing person.

**

* * *

Review, please?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Discworld. If I did, I would be very happy right about now. Which I still am, anyway, since today I have turned seventeen.**

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* * *

This chapter, oddly enough, takes away from the city to a certain extent. I don't think people wirte about the Witches enough, and especially not enough about a certain witch with a wonderful if split personality, and good hair. Enjoy!**

* * *

The clacks had come in early that morning. King Verence appreciated getting all the news from Ankh-Morpork, even if it wasn't particularly nice, useful or even interesting(1). It was just one of the things he felt was _proper _for a monarch

He and Shawn Ogg had set up a system, whereby Shawn would make his way to the newly constructed clacks tower every morning, get the news from the clacks man, and bring it to the palace just in time for breakfast, so that Verence could read aloud the news to his wife, in the manner of all husbands everywhere in the multiverse, whether their wives like it or not. (2)

Conveniently, for Shawn at least, at about the same time the young Ogg had set up an arrangement with Agnes Nitt, who lived quite near the tower – 'near' being about a mile and a half away - that she would go and get the clacks message and deliver it to him half way to the castle, so that he wouldn't have to get up so early in the morning and slog all that way to get the message. Besides, as he said, he had so much to do each day, what with all his chores and castle duties and everything, and she had…well…no offence, miss…not really much to do in any case…

Agnes didn't take offence. She knew it was true; knew that, out of all the witches in the area, she was, as Perdita so callously put it, _the reject. _Oh, people certainly respected her, to an extent, and she was clearly recognised as a witch – then again, a girl wearing all black with a pointy black hat was rarely mistaken for anything else – but while they trusted the power of the _hat_, they didn't really trust _her_. She was too young, too – _inexperienced _in practical mattersin their eyes, and far too educated to really be comfortable around. Perdita gloated about that in particular – _told you reading all those books would come to no good! _Now people avoided her for the same reason that they had avoided Magrat – they went to a witch to be cured or advised, not to have her spout technical babble at them which they had no hope of understanding or even listening to without feeling drowsy and slowly developing the strange urge to gnaw their own leg off to stay alive.

Agnes really didn't mean to spout the babble, but whenever someone came to her with a complaint Perdita had always interfered, cutting in, distracting her, telling her that her diagnosis was wrong, and so on. And then she'd start talking back, assuring herself as much as her invisible enemy that of _course_ she knew what was wrong, it was easy to tell – the symptoms, the notes written down in the books left in the cottage, it was _obvious_ – and by the time she'd gotten Perdita to go away, or at least stay quiet for a moment, her patient, oddly enough, seemed to have vanished too.

People had soon stopped coming altogether, especially after she had finally lost her temper and shouted Perdita down; she'd broken every window in the cottage with her scream and caused Old Mrs. Woodcutter, who'd come about a chesty cough, to faint clean away. Even Granny Weatherwax seemed preferable to _her_; at least the old woman didn't talk or occasionally scream to herself. Of, course, the down side was that she talked to _you_ – or just glared at you – but at least you had a good chance of being cured.

So now Agnes was stuck ferrying messages for _Shawn Ogg_, of all people; tramping through a mile and a half of inevitable mud every early morning to get a summary of all that had been happening in Ankh-Morpork. _Who cares about what happens in that old city anyway? _Perdita had whispered, more than once when she had made the long, lonely walk, bundled up in a scarf and an old coat, not even daring to wear her hat for fear it would be blown away. _You're not even getting anything out of this, except chilblains and blisters. Leave the stupid_ _twit to get his own messages. _But Agnes ignored her, for once, and made the journey again and again, through wind and weather and rains of frogs.(3)

This particular morning, the day seemed to have decided it was going to start bad and go on getting worse. The wind was blowing enough to knock any other person backwards head-over-heels, or possibly just head-smack-hard-on-ground, but Agnes was equal to that. She hunched down into her coat, and trod forward with the grim determination of one who was bloody well going to do their job, no matter how little they liked it, come what would.

Of course, the fact that she was currently having an argument with Perdita complicated the situation slightly. Sometimes she was really glad this path was so lonely. She _knew_ that she talked to herself; she just didn't want it confirmed for everyone else.

_Walking to the tower _again? _You're pathetic, you know that?_

"Oh, yes. You've been saying nothing else for the past few months. Can't you find another song to sing?" she muttered, pulling her scarf further over her nose.

_I've been saying it because it's true. You're not supposed to let people walk all over you, especially _that _little twit. You're a witch, not a postman._

"Really? I suppose I'm not even that, since _somebody _drove all the people away from me."

_I didn't tell you to talk to yourself. It's your own fault everyone thinks you're a nutter._

"I was talking to _you!"_

_So? Technically I'm _you._ Don't think I'm too pleased about that, by the way. I don't particularly enjoy being stuck inside a nasty, flabby-_

"Will you just shut up! Can't I be alone in my head for _once, _for goodness sake? Must you constantly torment me?"

_What, when I try to make things better for you?_

"You don't make things better, you just make them worse! I don't care what you say, _you're_ the reason I'm stuck doing this, so I don't know why you're complaining!"

_Maybe because I don't want you to get ill from all this trudging-_

"What do _you _care about my health, anyway? I'm just a big, nasty, flabby body to you!"

_Not so much now. _For the first time in a long while, Perdita was sounding quieter, more subdued.

"What d'you mean by _that?"_ Agnes asked crossly, hunching her shoulders against the wind.

_Agnes, I'm _part_ of you. Don't think I don't notice that you've been getting thinner lately. Your clothes are practically hanging off you. And you hardly eat._

"Yes, well – I'm on a diet. And the walking's good exercise."

_It's because you're depressed, isn't it? You miss being a proper witch…_

"Perdita. Shut. Up."

_And you miss that priest as well-_

"I cannot _believe_ you will not shut up!"

Agnes concentrated on blanking Perdita out; the clacks tower was emerging on the distance, and she didn't want the lads to hear any ensuing conversations, or rather battles. They were nice, they were sweet, and above all they were _new_, which meant they didn't hear the rumours that circulated in the villages.

Peter 'Daddy Longlegs', hilariously so called because of his height, was the one who saw her coming. Peter always kept a watchful eye out for her these days, partly because she was, in all essence, the highlight of his and his mates' day, the only really exciting thing they could count on happening, but mostly, Agnes thought, because she was interesting to him in more way than one. Perdita had whispered nastily more than once that he really _had_ to be desperate to be interested in _her._

Now he opened the door of the tower before she even had time to knock.

"Hello, Agnes!"

"Hello, Peter," Agnes said, slightly more calmly, and with a certain amount of care. She always had to take care when speaking to certain people now, especially Peter. "How are the others?" she went on, giving him the best smile she could manage these days.

"They're all fine! Thomas is _much _better after that cough mixture you gave him, and Robert's aching knee is completely gone!"

That was one of the problems of talking to Peter. It was as if he pronounced the punctuation itself. He reminded her more than a little of Christine, back in the opera house in Ankh-Morpork, aside from the fact that he wasn't blonde, stick thin, and female. Still, she did her best to look around that particular problem. After all, Peter _was_ nice He really was. He was one of the few young men who had looked at her as something more than just a plump, big haired girl who blushed easily, as something more than just a bystander on the side of more attractive girls (or more often _behind _attractive girls, since there wasn't really room for them on the side); and it helped that he didn't have fangs and an unholy interest in her neck, or a priest's collar and an _extremely_ holy interest in Om. Perhaps she wasn't interested in _that_ sort of thing herself, at the moment, but oh, for goodness sake, she didn't want to scare him off like she'd done everyone else. It was reassuring to have someone look at her directly without flinching. And at least he was tallerthan her.

"Has the news come in yet?"

"Oh yes!" Peter's face creased, as if debating some deep thought. It was quite interesting to watch. "I'd have to go up to Robert to get it, though, and with it being so cold and all – would you like to come in to wait?"

Agnes had the feeling that he'd been summoning up the courage to ask her that for a long, long time. It didn't bother her as much as it might have. In a way, it was comforting to be having a conversation in which she wasn't the one who was blushing, for a change.

"Thank you, Peter; that would be lovely." She tried to ignore Perdita gloating at the back of her head. Well, it _was _cold out here…

She had been inside the tower a few times before. To welcome the new clacks men when they had arrived, of course, and to introduce herself as the carrier-person; to bring Thomas the cough mixture when he had been hacking and wheezing… She could count the number of times she'd seen the place on one hand. And now there were three mugs on the table in the middle of the room. And an eternally hopeful and noticeably cleaner fourth mug, all by itself at the other end of the table, as well.

And now came the question…

"Would you like a cup of tea?" Peter blurted out.

Agnes had to hide a smile. It was probably what _she _would have done, in this situation.

"Yes please, Peter." She had to concentrate hard to ignore Perdita's hysterical laughter as Peter practically tripped over a stool in his rush to get to the kettle on the hob.

Another chuckle made her look up. Thomas 'Winker' was peering through the hatchway at the top of the short flight of steps. He winked at her.

"May I have the clacks message for today, Thomas?" It was the most deadpan voice she could manage, and she even admitted to herself it was _so_ deadpan it was as if a zombie had actually started up a fried food restaurant. (4)

"Of course, Miss. Agnes." Thomas winked again, though in a completely different manner, and shot out of sight.

_It's the pointy hat, _Perdita whispered. _You can take the witch out of the hat, but you can't take the hat out of the witch. _

Agnes didn't reply. It didn't seem fair to her at all that Perdita could say whatever she wanted inside her head without any worry, while she had to reply verbally all the time. It was probably where Perdita got her boundless amounts of self-confidence – she didn't have to worry about what people would think so much that when she _was _audible to the outside world, her personality didn't change one bit – she was still brash, rude and irritating beyond belief.

Whereas _she _always had to think about what people would say. At least, she had to if she didn't want to be skirted around in the streets, let alone chased with large butterfly nets.

Thomas appeared again, pacing down the stairs, this time clutching a piece of paper. "Here it is, Agnes! Only came in five minutes ago! Nothing out of the ordinary, really."

"You mean as ordinary as it can get, for Ankh-Morpork?" she quipped, as she reached up and took the paper from him, glancing at it as she did so.

She was still staring at the first few lines when Peter brought the kettle over, along with some tea bags and a jug of milk.

"Do you take sugar?" he asked eagerly, but she was barely aware of it. She was already cramming the note into the pocket of her coat.

"Sorry, Peter. It looks like I'll have to skip on the tea after all. I need to go somewhere quickly."

"Are you sure?" If she hadn't been so frantic, she might have felt sorry for Peter; he looked as if the world had fallen down around his ears, which judging by his height might not be such a calamity as first thought. "We've even got biscuits! They've got little bits of chocolate in them!"

Agnes's stomach paused for thought, but the rest of her was already half way out the door. "Quite sure! Bye!"

As she strode back down the hill, she couldn't help pulling out the paper again and examining the lines which had caught her attention.

STOP CUTTING NEWS STOP YOUNG TRAINEE ASSASIN FOUND MAULED TO DEATH OUTSIDE FISHERMEN'S GUILD HALL STOP BELIEVED TO HAVE BEEN EATEN ALIVE STOP

She shuddered – both of her. She couldn't remember the last time both she and Perdita had both been so fixated on one thing. It was very odd; the two were almost thinking in unison. She found, for now at least, she could think of both of them as 'I'. Because of this.

But why? What was so special about this? Bodies turned up in the streets everyday; you didn't need to stay in the city very long to work this particular fact out. So what was different about this one (apart from the being eaten alive part, which was slightly odd, even for Ankh-Morpork)? What had grabbed her senses and focused her on this of all headlines, and would not stop screaming something akin to _'clue!'_ in her ears?

She didn't know. And when this sort of thing happened, she knew there was only one thing she could really do, something she had been avoiding for months now.

She was going to see Granny Weatherwax.

* * *

It had been a very good morning for Simon Boggis of the Thieves' Guild. Nearly fifty dollars collected from visitors to the fair city, as well as assorted items collected from those who didn't have the specific amount required. Rings, earrings…normally the Guild didn't go in for that sort of thing, but Uncle Boggis would make sure that the value of this lot was assessed.

A _very _good morning, indeed.

Simon made his way through the alleyways, back towards the Guild Hall. He didn't need to be too secret about his movements – after all, he was an apprentice thief, which meant that any attempted attack on him would result in the would-be-attacker being strung up by their heels, and also the nephew of the head of the Thieves Guild, which meant that the would-be-attacker would be strung up by something _other _than his heels.

Simons was going _up_ in the world.

So it was too bad that the world would soon be taking him down, in a very unpleasant fashion indeed.

* * *

It didn't take Agnes very long to reach the cottage. Despite all the time that had passed it didn't look very different from the last time she had seen it. The tree was still growing out of the roof, the goats were still grazing around the front, the bee hives were visible around the back.

Now, to see if the occupant was in…

The front door opened with simply a push. She stepped inside – not exactly nervously, but with a certain amount of caution. It took a brave person to step into a witch's cottage uninvited, even another witch; you never knew if you would be welcome or not. (5)

"Granny?" she asked, tentatively. "Are you here?"

A search of the cottage yielded its occupant lying on the narrow bed in the bedroom, her eyes closed tight, her skin pale and cold, and a familiar card clutched in her hands:

I 'STILL' ATEN'T DEAD.

"Ah," said Agnes. There wasn't really much else to say. "I see you're…I'll…I'll just wait, then." She went outside again, and sat down at the kitchen table.

_Don't tell me you're _still _spooked by her Borrowing act, _Perdita whispered scornfully.

"If you must know, yes I am," Agnes muttered in reply under her breath. "It may not have been any change for you, but _I_ was the one being influenced by her when Vlad bit me. _It_ _was not pleasant."_

_I'll take your word for it._

"Do, why don't you? It'll be the first time you've ever-"

Agnes stopped. A hare had just hopped into the kitchen. It sat down, and looked up at her, completely unafraid, despite the fact that Agnes, while having lost quite a few pounds, was still able to squash it easily. There was something unnaturally _hard _in its gaze.

Then its eyes softened, and lost their stony quality, regaining the normal slightly dumb gaze of hares everywhere. Agnes felt something…not exactly cold, but _odd, _drift past her ear, and through into the bedroom behind her.

"That…really was not nice," she muttered, after a few moments.

A familiar sharp voice came from behind her. "When you're done talkin' to your alternate personality, Agnes Nitt, perhaps you could put some milk and bread in a bowl and give it to him?"

_She's getting better at it, you know._

Agnes didn't bother to make a reply, as she put the ingredients in the bowl and set it in front of the hare. The animal didn't even spare her a second glance as it began to wolf down its meal.

A creak from behind turned her around in time to see Granny Weatherwax making her slow but definite way through into the kitchen. She was twitching her nose. At least, Agnes hoped she was twitching her nose – it was a bit early for Granny to be sneering at her.

"How long have you been…out?" she asked, by way of a conversation starter of sorts.

Granny sat down in one of the chairs at the table, heavily. "All night."

"All _night? _But why? I mean…" What was the point? Granny always managed to talk her down. Better get on with it. "I need to show you something."

"Hmm." Granny had been giving her a disapproving look. "What have you been doin' to yourself, Agnes Nitt?"

"I haven't been doing anything to myself."

"You're lying. I swear that coat's fairly hangin' off you – and that dress!"

"Perhaps. Anyway, Granny-"

"And you got mud all over your boots! What have you been doin' to get mud all over your boots, and then tramping it in my kitchen?"

Agnes gritted her teeth. Now she remembered why she hadn't been to see Granny in so long – among other reasons. "I was walking up to the clacks tower. So, anyway-"

"To get the post for Shawn Ogg? Oh, don't look so surprised. You thought I wouldn't notice a lot of people from your village turning up at my door? It wasn't difficult to work out what happened. Haven't you been doing _any _witchin' these last few months? Or just goin' to get the post?"

Agnes went on gritting her teeth, and clenching her fists, ignoring Perdita's sniggers at her expense. Right now, there was something about Granny's voice that made her really just want to explode, but she knew that that was not the best of actions right now. "Just the post, Granny. As a matter of fact-"

"Tut, tut. Lettin' people walk all over you, that ain't the way of a proper witch." Granny's sapphire eyes were gleaming.

"Have you been speaking to Perdita or something? Because you're running along much the same line as she is."

Probably because she's got the right idea, gel. Runnin' up to the clacks tower, just to meet a few young men-"

"_As I was saying," _Agnes thundered, getting closer and closer to losing her patience, "I got this at the tower. Read it, will you?" She thrust the piece of paper at Granny.

The old woman took it, and looked at it.

After a few moments, Agnes asked, "Do you feel it too?"

Without looking up, Granny said in a perfectly calm, even voice, "Agnes, get the crystal ball off the shelf."

Agnes was not so angry as to not pay heed to this command; and as she had been in the cottage before it did not take her long to place the glass buoy, with a certain amount of care, on the table, then sit down opposite Granny. Even Perdita was quiet now.

Granny put aside the paper with a sigh, and tapped the surface of the ball.

"All right," she said quietly. "Show me. Show us."

* * *

Simon paused in an alleyway close to the Guild Hall, to count his earnings for the day again; to make sure he had everything. Dollars, rings, set of earrings, necklace; and all accounted for with a receipt for each item, even the earrings. Uncle Boggis was going to be so proud! He'd probably win the apprentice award _again _for this haul!

Simon was so busy admiring the jewellery he had acquired, he never even noticed the figure creeping up behind him, until it clamped a cold, clammy, abysmal-smelling appendage over his mouth, and pulled him backwards.

Which, by then, was a bit late.

* * *

Most crystal balls don't have a very good reception, meaning that the images can be grainy, disrupted, or not even the figures you were looking for in the first place, meaning that you could try to get 'Private Eye' and end up staring right into a great big yellowy-red glaring one instead. It all depends upon the will of the witch who is using the crystal at the time.

In Granny's case, this meant that the images shown within the ball were, for want of a better word, 'crystal' clear.

This didn't mean that they were any better, though. In fact, it made them much worse.

They watched it right to the end.

Agnes had seen some nasty things so far in her life, including a vampire getting his head cut off and yet _not _dying; but now she was almost grateful for Perdita being there to back up her mind, otherwise she might not have coped. No, scratch that; she _definitely _wouldn't have coped. As it was, even Perdita was feeling sick less than half-way through.

Granny Weatherwax did nothing. Not a twitch, not a gasp, not a murmur. It was as if she was looking right through the ball itself. The only sign she gave of the unfolding spectacle was the slight widening of her eyes as it went on, and got worse.

Finally, blessedly, the images died away.

There was silence in the cottage for a long while. Even the hare had stopped lapping the milk. Even rodents are put off by some things, surprisingly enough.

Finally, Agnes found her voice again, after some metaphorical searching for it in her stomach.

"That was…horrible."

"Yes," said Granny Weatherwax.

"That was really _horrible._"

"Yes," said Granny Weatherwax. She tapped the surface of the ball, as if deep in thought.

"You know," she went on, slowly, "I don't think I've ever been so grateful as now, at this very occasion, for the fact that you can't get sound on this thing."

"I should think so!" The images had been the sort that would make Agnes start awake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night for months to come; but the _sounds _which must surely have accompanied the said images would have made her wake up _screaming. _

Granny transferred her tapping to the surface of the table. She was looking into the distance. "I don't like the look of this," she stated plainly. "It's the Felmet business all over again."

"The old king? What's he got to with this?"

"Nothing."

"Then what-"

"Let us just say," Granny said grimly, as she got up, "back then I took a look at the future, and the future looked back. And let me tell you this, girl. It was a future with knives in it."

Agnes said nothing, and for once neither did Perdita. There were some things you didn't argue with.

"And now," Granny went on, as she made her way to the fireplace, "even here in Lancre, we're looking at a future with _teeth_ in it. Big sharp ones, at that. An' more than teeth."

A shiver ran through Agnes's frame. Once that might have been a sight to see indeed, but now… "What should we do? Tell Nanny and Magrat?"

"_Hoh,_ actually tell _Magrat? _Her Majesty? Surely she's got something _better _to do than witchcraft?" Granny bent down to reach up the chimney.

"But…we're not going to actually _do _some magic, are we? I mean, Ankh-Morpork's a long way away, and…well, if it's destiny, then we're not allowed to interfere or anything. That's what you've always told me!"

"Interfere in destiny with magic? Nah." Granny straightened up, bearing something in her slightly sooty hand. "In the state _you've _gotten yourself into, I doubt you'd even be able to fight off a _pixie_, which on considern' is perhaps not so much something to be ashamed of. But as Gytha always says, if you've got to break the rules, break 'em good and hard. And I'm not about to sit here doing nothing and let people get chewed apart and such goings on." She plonked the coffee tin down on the table. It gave a satisfying _chink. _"Now, what with all your dallyins' with that young clacks man-"

"_Granny!_ It's not like that, I swear!"

"- I was wonderin' if you might know the cost of a message to the leader of the Watch in Ankh-Morpork, what's his name, Vimes. Not necessarily a very _big _one, mind. Can't make it too easy for that lot, otherwise they get all offended."

* * *

(1) The last thing he didn't particularly need to worry about, really. Whether it was good, bad or just plain ugly – quite often the last of the three - you could be sure of the fact that there was _always _something interesting happening in the city that was so good they named it Ankh-Morpork.

(2) More often _not,_ as the case may be.

(3) It rained practically _everything _in the kingdom of Lancre, as a result of a highly magical field, since the Ramtops were so near the Hub. Moses and the Ten Plagues of Egypt would have had a field day.

(4) This situation would probably never actually occur in reality, though, since even Reg Shoe of the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, and leader of the Undead Rights Campaign, was prepared to admit that zombies are not exactly the best people to trust around cooking food. Too many chances of 'bits' dropping into the pan and so on, besides the obvious fact that the Undead chef is far more susceptibly flammable than the average human one.

(5) Unlike Nanny Ogg, who generally tended to barge into any place without care and fancy free, regardless of whether she was welcome or not. Not surprisingly, considering the widely known fame of her scumble, people generally tended to welcome her with open arms, and outstretched tankards(Made of wood. Definitely made of wood, unless the drinker wanted a mini explosion in their hand.).

* * *

**Reviews, please.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Discalimer: Don't own Discworld, or 'Deep Water' written by Laura Anne Gilman and Josepha Sherman.**

* * *

Vimes had a sort of love-hate relationship with the wall just behind Vetinari's chair. It had grown over the years; it was older than his marriage, even. It was a love-hate relationship because Vimes only ever focused on the wall when he was angry or irritated, and didn't want to meet Vetinari's eye for fear of what he would do. It was also a love-hate relationship because that was really the _only_ way to describe a relationship where the wall just stayed where it was, as wattle and daubed, or plastered and wallpapered in this case, as a wall can be.(1)

Right now, he was having a staring competition with the wall, even though he had an unfair advantage of actually having eyes to stare with.

"A delayed coagulant in the blood?" Vetinari didn't sound at all surprised. He hadn't even needed to ask what Vimes meant. Well, the man _had _been to the Assassin's School. They probably got taught about blood clotting in science classes. And how to _make _it clot, at that, for fatal results.

"Yes, sir. At least, that's what Igor thinks, and he generally knows about that type of…biology."

"So the victim's blood might have been clotted enough to kill him?"

"No, sir. We've decided that it was definitely the bites that killed him."

"Somehow, I think so as well." The Patrician sat back in his chair. "Have you identified him yet?"

"Trainee assassin, sir." Vimes kept his face blank. Well, what he was about to say was true… "We haven't been able to identify him personally as of yet, sir…"

"Jonathon Bleedwell."

Vimes tore his gaze off the wall. "Pardon, sir?"

"Jonathon Bleedwell. A third year trainee. Quite old family, the Bleedwells. One of them even had the honour of trying to ply his trade upon Lord Snapcase. Not that he succeeded."

One day, Vimes thought, I really need to set about finding a subscription to this informative newsletter that everyone else seems to read. "Yes, sir?" he asked stiffly.

"I took the advantage of inquiring of Lord Downey, as soon as I received the information of the attack, just _why _young Bleedwell happened to be standing outside the Guild of Fisherman, so late at night."

Internally, Vimes snorted. Why _else_ would an assassin be standing outside a building late at night, ready to shoot someone (the crossbow they had found cocked and ready to fire attested to that; oh, if the young man hadn't already been dead, he would have been in _so_ much trouble with him right about now he'd wish he _was _dead)?

And yet that was just it. Assassins didn't _work_ like that; they didn't shoot from afar. They preferred the up-close-and-personal touch. As he'd said before, the guild was twisted, but it had a twisted honour as well.

"Apparently, he had been hired for an appointment with one of the guild's members."

No surprises there. "Did Downey by any chance say who, sir?"

"What do you mean by that, Vimes?" Vetinari said, with an air which would have been innocent if it wasn't currently being utilised by a person who had no qualms about having people chained upside down in scorpion filled dungeons (3). "The person who hired Bleedwell? Or the one he was hired to…eliminate?"

"Not to be too frank, sir, but both."

"Unfortunately, I was not at liberty to discover that fact. Lord Downey was…most uncomfortable about the situation, or so it would seem. At any rate, he would not yield the aforementioned information, even after a little…persuasion on my part."

Vimes was impressed. For Vetinari – a man who viewed getting information out of a person to be like opening a certain potentially stubborn clam with a certain instrument, whether sharp or blunt - not to have gotten anything further out of Downey, meant that the Master of Assassins had _really _clammed up. But why? The Guild made no secret of the fact that its members killed people for a living; they even had a whole portrait gallery of bloody _monarchs _they'd knocked off, complete with fetching little plaques detailing who had done the deed! They left their damn notes at the scene, often stating exactly _who_ had organised the little surprise!

So why all the sudden secrecy? Why the reluctance – no, the _refusal,_ to state, to the Patrician of all people, the whoand the whyand the other who? Vetinari was not a man to be refused.

Yet now he had been…

And someone – _something _had killed the boy, before he could do his job…

So…perhaps someone else was interested in keeping the appointment_ alive?_

His musings were interrupted by a knock on the door, which was very swiftly followed by Drumknott's head poking around the door itself.

"Lordship, Sir Samuel…Captain Carrot is here."

"Carrot?" he said, turning around further. "I thought I told him to stay-"

"Yes, Commander, I know," Carrot said quickly, as he stepped past a startled Drumknott into the room, "but this was urgent, sir."

"How urgent?" Vimes asked, even as he took note of Carrot's face. It was the very image of a bad memory. And it was from last night.

Oh, no…

"I'm sorry, sir," Carrot said softly. "It's happened again."

"Where?" Vimes asked, while his brain frantically struggled to catch up.

"Practically next to the Thieves Guild."

"Carrot. Do we know who…?"

Carrot nodded once.

And that simple nod was enough to make Vimes wish he hadn't had those blackened eggs for breakfast after all.

* * *

Technically Angua was still off duty, but really there was never a time when she was off duty from her senses. As Sally had said before - no matter how little she liked admitting the truth of what a vampire said - she couldn't turn off her nose.

And now her nose had dragged her back to the first scene. Yes, the first one – she already knew about the second 'incident'. Fortunately she hadn't found it herself, otherwise the results would _not_ have been pleasant. She still remembered the shock as the scent had hit her nose.

The crime scene was slightly better, now, if only slightly. By universal agreement from all concerned, Commander Vimes had engaged a family of gnolls to clean the side street after the Watch had retrieved all the pieces that they needed, since they were just about the only creatures who could clean up the mess without leaving a trace and didn't go spare at the sight of blood and…other things, since they picked them up in the streets practically every day.

The scent was still so strong, though. She could practically lick the memory of it off the walls. That didn't mean she wanted to, even as a wolf. Besides, she was too busy being angry. The blood had been as effective as a really powerful scent bomb without (probably) even having been meant to be, meaning that she could get no whiff of the attacker whatsoever. Normally she could recreate a crime scene just by smelling, but now…now, to her, she had a hard time convincing her wolf self that she hadn't just stepped into an abattoir. All she could do was stand still and look rather stupid, rather than simply thoughtful.

There was a yelp from behind her. Turning around, she found that the one remaining gnoll who hadn't already cleared off after hoovering the place was struggling with a piece of dirty carpet.

On second inspection, though, it wasn't a piece of carpet. Pieces of carpet didn't normally fight back. Angua sighed, as she strode over to the miniature battle.

"I believe your temporary employment is over, now. Unhand the dog."

The gnoll scowled – at least, she thought it did, it was always hard to tell with gnolls – and shuffled off. Angua was left staring down at a very familiar, if not exactly welcome, face. She sighed again, readjusting her jaw to canine.

"What are you doing here, Gaspode? Loitering at the scene of a crime, perhaps? Possibly the sign of the one who did it, you know." She knew the joke was in rather bad taste, but right now she just didn't care. She just wanted to get other tastes out of her mouth and nose.

"Oh, hardy har har," Gaspode said morosely, as he picked himself up from the gutter. "I wasn't _loiterin', _whatever the hells that means – I just woke up from a nasty dream, and there was that gnoll tryin' to chew on me. That is not somethin' that should happen to a dog first thing in the mornin'."

"Morning? Gaspode, it's past midday! And, regardless, the question still stands – what are you doing here?"

"Where's here, exactly?" The dog took a few tottering steps forward.

"Opposite the Guild of Fisherman, the day after a murder, that's where."

Gaspode stopped and stared up at her, his eyes widening. "Oh, _bugger!" _he swore, rather loudly, and in human.

"_Gaspode!" _she hissed, looking around hastily in case anyone else had heard. "Are you insane? Do you _want _people to realise you can speak human or what?"

But the dog didn't appear to be paying attention. "Oh bugger, oh bugger, _oh bugger! _It wasn't a damn dream after all! Oh, _bugger!"_

"What the hells are you talking about?" Angua bent down to look at Gaspode more closely. She was surprised to see something that Gaspode didn't often show – actual fear. He wasn't just whining, he was _shaking. _And trying to curl into himself, as if to avoid the whole world. That wasn't like Gaspode at all; he was used to the whole world by now, so he didn't bother about hiding himself. "Gaspode? What wasn't a dream?"

"That assassin kid gettin' chewed up by that – that thing. Oh, _aargh! _It's all coming back now! Aargh! Get it out of my head! Why can't I get it out of my head?_ Why-_ 'ere, what are you doin'?" he added, in between his flinches, as Angua, against her better principles, picked him up.

"I'm taking you back to the yard, Gaspode, that is what I am doing. I need to get a statement from you concerning this matter."

"Oh yeah, puttin' forward a talkin' dog as witness?" Gaspode snorted, when he stopped shivering for an instant. "That's goin' to do a whole lot for your street cred, that is."

"For your information, I couldn't give a damn less about my street cred at this point in time. But Mister Vimes is going spare about this situation, and we need witnesses, and so far _you _seem to be the only one we have. So you are going to come with me, and you're _damn _well going to _be _a witness, do you understand me?"

"An' _how _exactly are you going to explain to your Mister Vimes that your only witness is a talkin' dog?"

"He's seen stranger things. Trust me on that."

* * *

Vimes sat at his desk, and, as was per normal for him, ignored the large amount of paper work in front, around, and in some precarious cases above him. Instead, he was trying to get some rather nasty images of his own out of his head.

The…body, when they had gone to see it after excusing themselves from Vetinari's office, had been in a slightly different state from Bleedwell's, since this lad still had his face and both of his eyes, and lids to close over them. They hadn't _been_ closed, though. They had been open.

They were blue, Vimes remembered all too well. They had stared up at nothing, with the frantic hopelessness of someone in terrible pain, who knew he was going to die. Just looking at them for more than a few seconds made your own eyes water.

His mouth had been open too, locked in trying to make a noise that would never come.

After that, he personally had gone to the Thieves Guild, to break the news to Boggis. He preferred not to remember that part at all, but it kept coming back. The jovial air of the man, just before he broke the said news. The look on his face as he told him what had happened. The sudden exhalation of air as the thief had sat back down. It was all ringing inside his head.

He left the man staring at his desk, hardly blinking. He had never hitherto associated the head of the Thieves Guild with grief, but now the two had come together so abruptly, it was a sobering spectacle. Apparently, young Simon had been one of his favourite nephews.

A lot of the thieves had watched him carefully, as he had made his way out of the Guild, with careful eyes, and their hands empty and by their sides. This memory he had chalked up to his already sizeable list of 'Images that will have me waking up in a cold sweat for years to come'. Staring up a dragon's nose was still top of the list, of course, but this particular little memory had gained pride of place somewhere alongside the sight of a mad half-transformed Wolfgang, which was saying a lot.

Now he was back here, in the Watch house, sitting in his office, having just read Angua's witness's statement. The paper had had a distinctly _doggy_ smell, but that wasn't as important as what it had said.

Apparently, this mystery witness, whose name was to be protected for various reasons – among others the sake of his own sanity, he suspected – had been 'innocently' making their way back to their home from the fish market, when they had seen the youth preparing to fire the crossbow at something out of the alley they couldn't see; at which moment some sort of creature (the witness was unable to say exactly what it was, namely because they hadn't cared to see it at any closer quarters) had pounced out of the shadows, grabbed hold of the victim, and prevented him from moving or making a sound by scratching him across the arm with, yes, some very sharp claws. The witness had been very clear on this, especially the sudden lack of muffled screams after the scratch had been inflicted, to be replaced with muffled squeaks that had somehow been more terrible than the screams.

The witness had also been very clear on what had happened after _that_ as well. Vimes' eyes had kept being drawn back to one particular part of the statement: _'It was bloody eating him. It was taking chunks out of him while he was still alive. I could see his eyes moving. He was squeaking all the time. And when he died, it just…lost interest. It was as if it only liked its food alive.'_

And now he was angry. No, he wasn't angry; he was _quietly _angry, which is much more dangerous than the loud version.

Something had killed these two young men. No, not killed; kill was far too tidy, too neat, too _nice_ a word. Something had ripped them apart.

_Slowly._

In his own city.

Something had dragged them off the streets, had pinned them down so they couldn't escape and drugged them so they couldn't scream or even move but were still _aware _of everything, especially the pain; had gnawed on their limbs and chewed their faces off, while they were still alive.

In his own city.

**_And, apart from _one_ person, no one had noticed. _**

_In my own city!_

Well, not any more. He was going to get to the bottom of this. And that wasn't just a vow. It was a promise. He already had some of the members of the Watch working on it, but that didn't mean he wasn't going to be part of it. Nobody did this in his city without getting some severe justice in return.

He pulled something out of his pocket.

"Gooseberry?"

The imp poked its head out of the hole in the box, in a by now familiar fashion. "Yes, Insert Name Here?"

"Could you search all these documents for anything to do with…" Vimes floundered. It was all very well to think that he was going to get to the bottom of it, but how could he when he didn't really have any idea of who – or rather what – he was looking for? He din't like it when there were too many clues, but he didn't like it when the only clue was a large amount of blood splattered all over the place, either.

"…mutilations? Where large pieces have been torn from the victim's body?"

The imp stared up at him for a few moments, before answering in its by now familiarly squeaky voice. "Umm…yes?"

"Then get to it." Vimes hesitated again. He knew this was somehow cheating, but he liked to give the imp something practical to do once in a while. And it did such a good job of it… "And could you tidy up the papers as well, while you're at it?"

The imp peered at the room. "You might want to step outside for a few minutes, Insert Name Here. I have a feeling it's gonna get messy."

"I'll take your word for it."

Leaning on the wall outside his office, and listening to the bangs and the occasional screams that were by now a standard part of his office life, he wondered if the imp would actually find anything. He doubted it. After all, they would have heard of something like this before now…

That didn't mean that he wasn't willing to try, though. After all, there were more than reports from the city in there. 'Sammies' from all over the plains often sent reports back to the place where they had been trained. Perhaps there might be something, anything.

At last, the bangs and crashes died away. The imp's voice squeaked, "You can come back in now, Insert Name Here!"

Opening the door, Vimes was impressed. He could actually see the floor for the first time in three months. The imp was sitting on the desk, holding up a piece of paper with an air of triumph.

"This all you could find?" Vimes asked, secretly rather disappointed, taking it from the tiny green hand.

"Yes, Insert Name Here!" Gooseberry replied, as it scrambled back into its box. "But I think you will be satisfied with it!"

The imp was right. Vimes did take an odd, grim sort of satisfaction from reading it. He really shouldn't, considering it was the details of the discovery of the body of an elderly priest found on the sea shore a few miles away, with just enough bits missing to suggest that something had been having a pre-swim snack…but it was true. At least he now knew that this sort of thing had happened before, and not just in the city.

But still, he needed more information. Who had approved this form? Ah, yes. Of course.

He made his way to the door – he still found it more reliable than the speaking tube in some ways – and opened the door to shout, only to find the person he wanted right in front of him, and just about to knock. Carrot blinked at him.

"Our minds seem to run on just about the same track now," he muttered, as he stood aside to let the young man in. "What do you want, Carrot?"

"A clacks message came in just now for you, sir. All the way from Lancre, they said."

"_Lancre?_ Who the hells would want to send me a clacks from _there?"_

"Don't know, sir." Carrot coughed. "You wanted me for something, sir?"

"Ah, yes. Shall we swap?"

Carrot took the report, and looked at it. "Ah. Yes, this came in about three weeks ago. Poor Father Alden. A priest of the Sea, I think he was."

"You mean a Libertinian?" Vimes asked, unfolding the clacks message. As gods went, he'd always found Libertina one of the strangest of the deities that he didn't believe in in any case. Being the goddess of the sea was all very well, but he couldn't for the life of him see what the ocean had to do with apple pie, let alone pieces of string or ice cream (4), although apparently you _could _make some sort of jelly from sea weed.

"Apparently so, sir. You think there could be some connection?"

"What do they think the cause of his death was?" Vimes aske,d unfolding the clacks and checking the sending address. Yes, it was definitely Lancre.

"Well, they _say _it was caused by some sort of animal – but the wounds he sustained to bear quite some resemblance to the ones we've encountered, sir."

"Mmm?" He was hardly listening, as he read the message.

STOP MISTER VIMES COMMA WHAT YOU SEEK HUNTS ON BOTH LAND AND WATER COMMA AND BITES TO TASTE BEFORE IT EATS STOP LOOK FOR PEARLS COMMA FOR FISH WITH NO BONES COMMA AND FOR PLOTTERS WHO LEAVE NO FOOTPRINTS STOP E STOP WEATHERWAX STOP

"Carrot? Do we know for a fact that it might have been a shark attack? After all, he was found on the beach, so he might have been going for a swim. You know, to honour trhe goddess and all that."

"Umm…Libertinian priests don't actually worship by swimming, sir-"

"Indulge me, Carrot."

"Ah, right…well, perhaps he was, sir, before the – being killed part. But he was found far up the beach, not in the surf, and sharks aren't normally known for getting out of the water."

Vimes handed him the message to read. "Well, I have a feeling they do now."

* * *

(1) Unless, by some chance, the architect for its design had been Leonard of Quirm or, whichever god who happened to be listening at the time help you if such was the case, Bergholt Stuttley Johnson, more commonly known to all and sundry as 'Bloody Stupid' Johnson. The name alone would have had the more sensible person edging out of the building itself, perhaps even running for the hills.(2)

(2) Whenever there is a crises involving a large enemy or general problem steadily approaching to where the subject is, there always seem to be _some _people in the situation who will cry _'Run for the hills!'_ and dash off accordingly, even if there are no hills in the immediate or even fairly distant area. How these people react if the threat is coming _from _the hills has never been recorded. Presumably they run the other way.

(3) But only if they were mimes, of course.

(4) In fact the true reason for Libertina's divine duties, as extolled by her worshippers among themselves, is that there was a great game among the gods as to who could explain the world and its purpose most effectively through the use of ordinary items, or ordinary for the gods at least. Libertina won, so she landed the plum job of being the deity of the sea and the right to be worshipped for the aforementioned items she had used in her representation of the Disc and the various creatures which supported it. Very few gods get the chance to choose what they are actually patron of, so if the occasion arises you might as well go for a job where you get to hold a big impressive looking trident and be worshipped for something everyone actually likes; and it is amazing the amount of belief the desire for a piece of string will inspire, whether the follower of the faith wishes to tie up some leeks or simply make a model of four large elephants.

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Reviews, please?**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Don't own Discworld.**

* * *

So.

It had finally come to this.

He had faced several more than slightly annoyed vampires, encountered hungry werewolves, and even seriously detained one or two over excited zombies, although he always stayed to help them reattach whatever extraneous parts of their bodies he had detached once they calmed down(1). But now, one of the greatest and most dangerous challenges of his career had finally emerged…

…the man holding the tray beamed at him over the _objects_ upon it…

…being confronted with Ankh Morpork's 'hot sausages inna bun'.

It was time to deploy his second most secret weapon. He knew it was below the belt, but in this case he was willing to make an exception. And the beauty of it was, people never suspected it.

Well. Almost never.

He smiled serenely back at the man holding the tray.

"Tell me, have you ever thought of letting Om into your life?"

* * *

(1)They say that in the country of the zombies, the zombie with an extra appendage - and helpfully some digits on the aforesaid appendage - is king; but really all such an Undead person in such a situation needs is someone else who is willing to put their finger on the knot until the string is pulled tight.(2) Given the usual confusion in the circumstances when such a situation occurs, however, sewing is usually the last thing on anyone's mind, Undead or not.

(2)Fortunately for all the various human heroes pitched against overwhelming odds in various Undead horror thrillers, the zombies don't seem to have worked this out just yet, having apparently not gotten much further than the thought processes of groaning and lurching and a rather odd desire for brains. Rather like vampires and their habit of clinging to the tradition of spelling their names backwards to avoid detection, the practice of which grows stale almost as quickly as an accent where the letter 'w' doesn't seem to exist.

* * *

When Vimes made his way back down the stairs again, followed by Carrot, he walked into a scene of some interest.

There were lots of people in the main office of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House. That wasn't what surprised him; such was always the case, even at night. What surprised him was that for once the ratio of humans outdid the ratio of people that weren't human, and most of the humans weren't in Watch uniform, but in ordinary, if slightly bedraggled, clothes.

Correction, make that very bedraggled. On average, the crowd looked as if it had walked into a treacle mine.(3)

* * *

(3)Ordinarily it is _very_ hard to walk into any sort of mine, since by law they have to have lots of signs situated around them saying things like 'Beware, mine ahead' and so on, so that if anyone _does_ fall in, it is entirely their own fault. However, a treacle mine is a different matter altogether; unlike other mines, its contents have a tendency to seep out at the seams, in a rather sticky mess, so that you don't have to be anywhere near the actual mine to walk into it.

This also causes a problem with warding off bystanders – for some reason, it is very hard to take a sign that says 'Run, don't walk from – The Treacle' seriously.

* * *

The only one who wasn't in such a unfortunate state – and consequently complaining about it at the top of his voice – was a man dressed all in black, sitting by the front desk and talking to Cheery. As Vimes approached, he heard him say, in a tone of slight desperation, "…but all I did was offer him a pamphlet!"

_Ah. _

Vimes mentally shook his head, as he came to a halt by the desk. "Morning, Cheery. What's this one done?"

Cheery at once snapped to attention, or as well as she could while sitting on a rather wobbly tall chair. "Accused by several witnesses of instigating a riot, sir!"

"I _didn't!"_ The man in black swivelled around to stare up at him, revealing, as Vimes had rather suspected, an Omnian priest's collar; but rather surprisingly showing himself to be unexpectedly young. Constable Visit himself was just shy of thirty, but this one didn't look as if he was much older than twenty at the most. "Commander, I've already _told_ the officer everything that happened! The street vendor propositioned me with his…"

He paused for thought as he no doubt mentally searched for an appropriate word, though still managing to do it with a certain amount of hysteria.

"…sausages, and I merely offered him a religious pamphlet. Then he started screaming and running away, and then everyone else started yelling, and a cart of something got turned over, and the next thing I knew I was being dragged in here!"

Vimes sighed. He'd seen it all before. More than once.

"You must understand, Mister…?"

"Oats. I am the Quite Reverend Mightily Oats." The young man seemed to hear the unasked question, despite Vimes not saying a single word. "Mightily-Praiseworthy-Are-Ye-Who-Exalteth-Om Oats."

"Well, Mister Oats," Vimes went on, all the while thinking that no one should be part of a religion which dictated that such crimes against human endurance be pulled off at the font, or whatever this lot used, from time to time, even if it _was _shorter in Omnian, "people in this city seem to have developed an allergic reaction to other people coming up to them in the street and offering them pamphlets, especially ones of a religious nature. Nothing against you, you understand. It was just self-defence."

The priest nodded. "I rather suspect it was." Now that he had stopped being slightly hysterical, he didn't seem too offended by the fact that nobody appeared to want his teachings, a first in Vimes's experience of Omnism. "I didn't rely on him being used to it, though. I usually count on them not seeing it coming. Am I in any trouble, sir?" he added, more anxiously.

"Shouldn't think so. There are far worse ways to cause a riot than by threatening with religious pamphlets, hard though it may be to accept it. I think we'll let you off with a reprimand, over-doing self defence. Just don't do it again, all right? At least, not while you're still within the city walls."

"Very well, Commander. Can I have my things back, please?"

Vimes only now noticed that Cheery was violently shaking her head and, by the look of exasperation on her face, or at least as much of her face as he could see around her beard, that she had been trying to get his attention with the tactic for the past minute or so. He paused for thought.

"Something wrong with returning his belongings, Sergeant? Anything we need to give him a receipt for?" Surely a priest wouldn't be carrying anything particularly sharp?

Cheery gave him a look which he had come to recognise very well, despite the beard, as: _You'll see. _Then she leaned over the side of the chair, which rocked dangerously, and hauled a bag which he hadn't noticed before up from the floor, to set carefully down on the desk in front of her.

Vimes did see. He saw very well. His eye was particularly caught by the shine of sunlight upon the well forged metal, tracing along the length of the object that protruded from the pack.

_Maybe it wasn't the pamphlets that scared Dibbler off after all._

"That's…that's a big axe, Mister Oats," he managed after a few moments. It _was_ big. And sharp. It was an axe that any dwarf would have wept to hold, and that any other being, except perhaps a troll, would go to pieces at the sight of – more specifically two, especially if the said dwarf had swung it at the spot the shorter officers were so often accused of eyeballing.

"Oh yes!" Oats patted the blade of the weapon. "I've had it for quite a long time, now. I keep it for use on my flock."

Vimes stared.

"Mostly it's only to get them to sit still during the sermons, but occasionally I have to use it to cut something off."

Vimes continued to stare.

"Usually it's just a toe or finger, to get the message across, but I always make sure the blade's sharp enough to take off an arm or a leg, just in case."

The stare did not abate, but rather increased.

"I've even had to cut off a few heads, sometimes." The young man had a satisfied smile on his face.

Vimes was wondering what to define the young man as when he filled out the form for his 'detainment'. 'A religiously crazed maniac' didn't seem to quite cut it – after all, there were a lot of those in the city every day, using the codenames of priests, and they hadn't been snapped up yet, even if they did restrict cutting people apart or open to the sacrifice table.(4)

* * *

(4)Since Vimes had never attended a religious ceremony that dictated that the aforementioned unfortunate be cut apart or open, he had no way of knowing that the priests had long ago moved with the times. Realising that while the average worshipper was happy to pray to their god (and even contribute to the collection plate, if only after being rapped on the head with it) they weren't quite so willing to offer up their firstborn son for the altar, the various clerics had given in, and adopted one of two methods: either skipping killing the sacrifice and just cooking it (since it is rather pointless to attempt to rip the still beating heart out of a sausage, and much more sensible to stick it on a stake and toast it over a fire, and considerably more tasty) or keeping the 'killing' and replacing the human victim with something that screamed and struggled a lot less, and also bled a lot less. It was generally agreed that sacrificing a dummy was, on the whole, an improvement, even if it wasn't as exciting.(5)

(5)It also gave the priests the chance to tell the truth at least once in a while – they could say 'This won't hurt a bit' with absolute sincerity, even while holding a sharp pointy implement at the time. A trait which every single person prays their dentist possesses.

* * *

"But I always wait until it grows back before I go on with the sermon."

"_What?"_

Oats blinked. "I've spent the last three years in Uberwald, Commander. If I'm going to preach to old fashioned vampires and werewolves, it would be more useful if they had heads to listen with, yes?"

"_Überwald? _But…I wasn't aware…" Vimes was aware that Cheery was doing her best to hide a grin, which with the thickness of her beard meant that she was doing a very good job; but it was the principle of the thing. "I wasn't aware that missionaries were sent there very often," he managed feebly, even though he knew that Oats could tell that what he _really_ meant was: Ye gods, man, do you have a death wish? Or did you just do something to really piss your superiors off?

But then again, he had done something. This skinny young man, with a slight indent on his face near his nose which had obviously once been the site of a rather impressive boil, had obviously shown that he knew how to use that very, very sharp axe on the table to best effect.

_Oats the Vampire-slayer?_

"Well…strictly speaking, they aren't. I was sent to the kingdom of Lancre at first, but…ah…after a little while there, I felt Überwald needed me more."

Something went _ding _in Vimes' head.

"Oh, really? Did you spend much time there?" It was, he had to admit, barefaced prompting, but at least it got the job done without any arsing about.

"There were times when I thought I might well end my days there, but I, er, have a feeling that's not what you mean." The young man looked slightly alarmed at his sudden change in attitude.

"Well," Vimes tried, with a little desperation – these countries were so small you could practically throw a rock across them after all; everyone knew everyone else, however short an amount of time you'd been there, surely? - "you wouldn't happen to come across anyone called E. Weatherwax, would you?"

He was rewarded by the sudden stiffening of the priest's spine, and a change in expression. When he spoke, it was as if some previously unheard timbre of his voice had finally woken up and come into play.

"Ah. I think it is _Mistress_ Weatherwax to whom you refer."

"You know her then?"

"Oh, yes. I know her. I know her very well." Oats looked at him with a new, sharper gaze than before. Vimes had to shake off the distinct feeling that there were _two _sets of eyes in the face, overlaid, and both pairs were scrutinizing him like stink. "Why do you ask?"

_Because she sent me a clacks telling me answers I need to understand the questions to. Because I have a nasty idea that she knows more about this business than I do, and she's living over five hundred bloody miles away. Because I want to know _how _she knows what she knows…_

"I've heard of her," was all he said. "But not much. Who is she?"

"She is a witch, Commander. An extremely powerful one, as well. I am surprised that you can have heard of her without knowing that."

"Yes, well. IsaidI hadn'theard _much_ of her." Vimes took a step forward, and leaned down so that he was more on a level with Oats's face. "You say she's powerful, Mr. Oats. How powerful?"

"Commander, the first time I met her, she was bitten by a rather strong vampire-"

"What? She's a _vampire?_" That would be just perfect, if his only lead was supplied by a bloody vampire…

"No, Commander," Oats said patiently. "I didn't say she _was _a vampire. I just said she was bitten by one."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference is, is that she didn't become one. She fought off the call of the blood, by sheer bloody stubbornness. She refused to let it take her over." Oats sat back. "So it didn't."

There was silence.

"Let me get this straight," Vimes heard himself say, after it seemed that nothing else was coming. "You're telling me that this woman fought against a vampire's influence, even after she'd been bitten, even after they'd drunk her blood, even after they'd got inside her head – and she _won?_"

Oats grinned. "Not only that; she turned the tables on them. She let them drink from her to get inside _their_ heads. When she was finished with them, every single one of them was craving tea. _Tea, _Commander!" Oats shook his head slightly, in admiration. "And there were…other things she did, as well."

Vimes leant forward further, putting both hands on the arm rests of the chair, so that his nose practically touched Oats's. "Do you know where I can contact her?"

* * *

Miss Dearheart, also known as "The Black Maiden", "She who smokes because her fire has been rained upon", "The one of the steel heels and dagger toes", "Killer" and, more often nowadays and mainly by a certain golden clothed be-winged Post Master, "Spike", was currently perusing a catalogue.

Its title was 'WHAT NOT TO WEAR – A GUIDE TO MAKING YOUR WEDDING DAY THE HAPPIEST AND MOST STYLISH DAY OF YOUR LIFE'.

A lot of the garments it advertised were trimmed with foamy lace.

_Hmm._

She turned a page, glancing at the engagement ring on her finger as she did so. She often did that, simply to make sure that this wasn't all some great big delusion. Or rather that it was, because she was certain that if she were in her right senses, there would be no way on the Discworld that that particular ring would be on that particular finger.

Still, it was.

It had come as a surprise to everyone who knew her, and not least the one who had offered the ring to her in the first place, that she had actually accepted the piece of jewellery onto her finger at all.(6) But that was life; sometimes it kicked you in the teeth, at other times it inspired you to accept the suit of others so that you could always have an excuse for kicking them in the teeth.

* * *

(6) After all, it takes a very special kind of name indeed to make the prospect of becoming 'Mrs. Moist von Lipwig' infinitely more attractive. Then again, 'Adora Belle Dearheart' fulfils that category every time. If Omnism had a lot to answer for, then whoever thought up such a name deserved to be on the receiving end of the Klatchian Inquisition, in Miss Dearheart's opinion if in no one else's.

* * *

There were a number of rather erratic knocks on the door.

"Come in, Stanley," Miss. Dearheart said, hastily shoving the catalogue into her desk drawer. It was bad enough that her mother had effectively blackmailed her into even considering wearing such repulsive dresses as were displayed in the hated catalogue; she didn't need the people she worked with, let alone her husband-to-be, to find out.

After all, it would be extremely hard to run an efficient postal and clacks service if all her colleagues had died of multiple heart attacks.

Stanley opened the door just as she slammed the drawer shut. He looked faintly agitated. Then again, he always looked faintly agitated if he was away from his stamps for too long. Moist said that at least it was an improvement from the pins – if any 'Little Moments' came around, it was better to get hit in the face with a sack of stamps. Not much better, but better. "Commander Vimes is here to see you, Miss-going-to-be-Mrs-Lipwig!"

Normally anyone who called her that would have spent the next few weeks limping from a casually aimed stab to the foot from a stiletto heel; but Miss. Dearheart was rather fond of Stanley – or as fond as she could be of anything without progressing to her next stage of affection, which most people (save the aforementioned golden clothed be-winged Post Master) never saw; so she simply nodded and said, "Thank you, Stanley. Show him in." A stray thought made her add, "And don't tell Mr. Lipwig that the Commander's here, will you? I think he has enough on his plate already."

"Oh, he knows, Miss-going-to-be-Mrs-Lipwig. He _did _turn a funny colour when he saw the Commander come in. In fact, it was the exact shade of the paper that they used for the base of the first Penny stamps-"

"Thanks, Stanley, that is _all._ Just go and find Mr. Lipwig. Try to get him back to his normal colour."

As Stanley shuffled out again, he was passed in the doorway by a man Miss. Dearheart had seen once or twice, if only in the newspaper, but had never had the privilege of actually speaking to. She felt all that little more self-actualised by the fact that she was now about to embark upon a conversation by a man who all who followed the way of sarcasm and cynicism should rightly bow down and worship. Compared to him, she willingly admitted, if only to herself, she was probably no more than a novice in the art.

The thin, grizzled man in rusty armour made his way to the desk, paused in front of it, and gave her the once over.

The two shared a glance. It was a glance which said a lot. For one, it established both of them as members of that secret club which is so secret it doesn't even have a name (though if it did have one, it would probably be CNN(7)) let alone a book of rules, but which nevertheless instructs its disciples to be as sarcastic and vicious as they possibly can – presumably so that no one will ever stay around long enough to find out about their wonderful organisation.

* * *

(7) Cynical 'n _narked._

* * *

It was she who first broke the ice, without going through all the irritating pleasantries that polite people always wasted their time with. "What can I do for you, Commander?"

"How much would a clacks to Lancre cost?"

"To you?" She couldn't resist.

"Of course to me."

* * *

**Review, please!**


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